


as far as desire wills our feet

by Deisderium



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spartacus (TV) Fusion, Ancient Rome, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Gladiators, Intercrural Sex, Kissing, M/M, Slavery, Sword and sandal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21511225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium/pseuds/Deisderium
Summary: Spartacus, they called him, but that wasn't the name he had been born with. He was a Thracian, Bucky knew that much; Bucky's father was the man's dominus. But that wasn't the source of Bucky's admiration; he had seen the man fight off four other gladiators meant to kill him. He had moved with raw power, muscles working with a predator's smooth efficiency and a soldier's grim determination, even when he was wounded and exhausted.He had somehow pulled power from powerlessness, and Bucky envied him.***A Spartacus AU!
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 73
Kudos: 144





	1. sun on sand; a cup of wine

**Author's Note:**

> TAG WARNING: The slavery tag is for slavery as in the show _Spartacus_ (and as in actual ancient Rome.) Steve did not choose to be a gladiator; he was captured after a battle and forced to fight or die. 
> 
> also, i haven't seen the show in YEARS so I have probably forgotten some details. WHOOPS.

The sun was hot on the arena, the iron-bright smell of blood mingling with the burning smell of sand and men's sweat. The sand was spotted with blood already--there had already been many matches, but Balius Lentulus Batiatus, known to his sister and a few intimates as Bucky, had eyes for none of them. He was waiting for the match with the gladiator that had caught his eye the month before.

Spartacus, they called him, but that wasn't the name he had been born with. He was a Thracian, Bucky knew that much; Bucky's father was the man's  _ dominus _ . But that wasn't the source of Bucky's admiration; he had seen the man fight off four other gladiators meant to kill him. He had moved with raw power, muscles working with a predator's smooth efficiency and a soldier's grim determination, even when he was wounded and exhausted.

He had somehow pulled power from powerlessness, and Bucky envied him. 

He shouldn't have; he was the son of the  _ lanista  _ and a free citizen. But he'd been a disappointment to his father his entire life, it felt like, and he could see the path of his life set in a stone, a mosaic that he had no hope of changing. His father's chain of office would collar him as effectively as any slave, he sometimes felt, even though he knew this was the whining of a child. He should be grateful, he knew, that he was not on the sands fighting for his life the way that Spartacus was.

And yet.

He had never been one to pursue a well-known name, to pay coin or offer gifts to the gladiators in exchange for their favors. It felt wrong to him, a smear of grease on pristine linen, because he would never be able to know that a  _ yes  _ in those circumstances was truly meant. But he had talked to Doctore anyway, asking him to set up a meeting with the man. He wanted to talk to him, truly that was all; but the lean, scarred trainer of gladiators had leveled his steady, one-eyed stare on him and he had felt himself flush regardless. Not that Doctore would betray him to his father. They had an understanding. 

It was time for Spartacus's match. Bucky leaned forward in his seat, his thoughts evaporating like sweat under the sun. He had eschewed his family's box and was sitting in the open seating, a mug of cheap wine warming mostly-untouched in his hands. 

It was nothing so simple as physical lust that Bucky felt when he looked at Spartacus--although he felt that too. The man was tall, well-muscled, lean--none of it unusual in a gladiator--but his face was stern and yet somehow, when Bucky looked at it, he saw compassion as well. 

Or he was a fool, spinning fancies around a set of wide shoulders in leather armor and a fighter's grace. Perhaps he'd find out, after the match.

Spartacus was to face the Visigoth, one of the heartiest brawlers in the arena, a tall man with long yellow hair, some pulled in braids and a wild beard, armed with an axe and a giant metal war hammer so heavy that none could wield it but him. He was a favorite, and the crowd cheered as he walked out. He was even taller than Spartacus, and Bucky's breath caught a little. He'd have the advantage of reach on the Thracian. But Spartacus was grinning, a fierce expression that wasn't joy, but something akin to it. He rolled his shoulders and settled the round metal shield on his left arm and drew his  _ gladius  _ with his right.

The match began, and for a few seconds, these two giants of the sand only circled each other, assessing, and then the Visigoth moved first. He struck with brutal speed, swinging the axe at Spartacus, who threw up his shield to block the blow. The clang of metal against metal echoed through the arena, and Bucky felt it vibrate down his spine. The Visigoth retaliated immediately, bringing the hammer around toward Spartacus's ribs in a blow that, if it landed, would surely snap them, regardless of the leather armor. 

But Spartacus spun more like a dancer than a warrior, lithe as a cat, and dodged away. He struck with his sword, and they exchanged a flurry of blows almost too quick to watch. They broke apart, stepping back to once again look for weakness in the other man.

Spartacus's grin had faded to a look of intense concentration. His broad shoulders gleamed with sweat, and his hair was damp with it, plastered to his skull. Bucky knew that the sword and shield must be heavy in his hands, but he looked as though they weighed nothing at all. Spartacus struck, and the Visigoth parried. They broke apart. The crowd was quiet enough, mesmerized by the performance, that Bucky could hear the gladiators' panting breaths, the slide of their sandals on the sand.

They fought, evenly matched, until Spartacus swung his sword at the Visigoth, and the Visigoth met it with his hammer. The blade of the  _ gladius  _ snapped, jagged and useless, above the pommel. Bucky drew in a sharp, nervous breath, the sound of it completely drowned by the crowd's cheers.

The Visigoth lifted his ax and hammer and shook them, and the crowd answered him, hooting and yelling their approval. Spartacus tossed the useless remains of his sword to the sand, loosening the shield on his left arm and transferring it to the right. The Visigoth was courteous enough to wait until he was done, and then he rushed him with a roar that Bucky heard even above the yells of the people around him.

The Visigoth struck furiously, tasting victory, but Spartacus parried every blow with the shield. Bucky had never seen anything like it--had never seen someone turn such a disadvantage around, turn a defensive weapon into an offensive one. But Spartacus was special; Bucky knew it in his bones. The Thracian moved quickly, perhaps knowing that he could not keep the Visigoth's twin weapons from him for too long. The taller man wheeled to strike with his hammer, blonde hair flying with his movements, and Spartacus slipped under his guard, faster than a stooping hawk, and caught him a blow to the chin.

The Visigoth staggered--Bucky could not imagine the force of the blow, the heavy metal shield with all of Spartacus's muscle behind it--and the Thracian pressed his advantage, knocking both the Visigoth's weapons away and pinning him to the sand, the heavy edge of the shield at his throat.

Spartacus said something to the Visigoth, quiet enough that no one but the two of them could hear it, words only meant for gladiators' ears. Both of them turned to where Bucky's father was watching from the box, and Bucky waited, his breath caught in his throat, while the  _ dominus  _ decided their fate.

He let them both live, of course; they were far too valuable to be wasted in such an insignificant match. Spartacus moved his shield from the other man's throat and extended a hand, and the Visigoth let himself be pulled to his feet. They left the arena, and while another bout was meant to start, Bucky had eyes for nothing else but the man he'd just seen. He pulled the rough cloak concealing his fine clothes closer to him and left to seek Doctore.

*

Bucky's nerves were pulled tight, and he hardly knew why. Doctore had left him by Spartacus's room with a whispered, "Don't do anything too stupid. And if you do, make sure I don't have to know about it."

He knew that men and women alike sought out the company of gladiators all the time, even if it was more often to fuck than to speak with them.

He knocked on the door to announce himself, then felt like an idiot. He knew he was expected; Doctore had said as much, and he would not lie.

Spartacus appeared in the doorway, still sweating and flushed from his exertions in the arena. "Doctore said you wanted to see me," he said neutrally. 

His face was even more striking up close, a strong, crooked nose and the clean planes of his bones pressing against smooth skin. His eyes were the color of the sky at mid-day, framed by lashes longer than any maiden's. He was clean-shaven from afar, but up close, Bucky could see a day or two's growth of stubble, a shade or two darker than his pale hair. He was uncomfortably aware of how much he wanted to place his hand against that square jaw and feel the prickle of the hairs against his palm. The Thracian was probably five or more years older than Bucky's eighteen, and Bucky's tongue was heavy in his mouth, his youth and inexperience making him feel clumsy and callow.

"I brought wine," Bucky managed to say, hefting the amphora he brought from his father's cellar. "I thought--if you have the time, sir, I would like to speak to you." He could feel his face heat.  _ I sound like an idiot, _ he thought. 

Spartacus's gaze rested on him for a long moment, unwavering, and Bucky's flush deepened. "What does the son of the  _ dominus  _ wish to speak to me about?"

"My friends call me Bucky," Bucky said, and immediately wished the sand beneath his feet would swallow him. It was a child's name, an infantile nickname his sister had given him, and he ought to have said the man could call him Balius. "I saw you fight," he added, struggling to find words that would keep him from feeling so wrong-footed. Something that would convince the man in front of him to speak to him. "It's--I've never seen anything like it."

The Thracian's eyes narrowed, and after a long moment, he nodded. "Come in, if you like."

Bucky didn't know what he expected, but the room was small and austere, a small pallet for sleeping with a chest at the foot next to rickety chair the largest pieces of furniture in the room. Bucky thought uncomfortably of the opulent rooms in his father's house, the tiled floors and dining couches. Spartacus pulled two chipped clay cups from a cupboard and gave Bucky one. Bucky unstoppered the amphora and poured them both a cup, asking permission with a glance to water them from a pitcher on a low table under the cupboard. 

Spartacus took a sip from the cup and his eyebrows shot up; Bucky hoped it was pleasure at the taste of the wine. Spartacus gestured at the chair and Bucky sat, arranging the folds of his tunic over his knees. Spartacus set his cup on the table next to the pitcher and opened the chest at the foot of the bed. He pulled out a few lengths of fabric and tossed them on the pallet, then started unbuckling his leather armor. Bucky hardly knew where to look.

"Whatever you want to ask me, ask me," he said.

Bucky swallowed hard and turned the chipped clay mug in his hands. "I heard you were from Thrace," he said. "How did you end up here?"  _ Here  _ could mean so many things in this context, and Bucky wasn't sure himself which he most wanted to know.

Spartacus eased out of the leather armor and sighed. His chest was enormous, shiny with sweat and oil, sparse hairs scattered between small, flat nipples. Bucky allowed himself to imagine for one brief moment the two of them in the bathhouse, seated next to each other in one of the heated pools. Bucky might offer to scrape his back for him, cover him in oil, then run the strigil over his smooth skin. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair; luckily the Thracian didn't seem to notice. 

"I am," Spartacus said, carefully setting his armor on a stand in the corner. "I was. I was one of our defenders. We allied with Roman forces, but they... didn't conduct themselves with honor. Our village was left unprotected. I defected to return, but it was too late. The Getae had attacked the village. I managed to find my mother and escape, but the Romans captured us. Now she is a slave in some noble's household and I..." He spread his hands and looked at Bucky for the first time since he'd started speaking. His blue eyes pinned Bucky to the spot. They weren't the sky at mid-day now but the calm in the storm, filled with anger and a hatred Bucky couldn't touch. It was directed at him as much as at any Roman, he felt certain. "...as you see."

"I'm sorry," Bucky said inadequately. "It should not have happened." He felt young and stupid, unable to plumb the depth of this man's pain. His own concerns seemed dizzyingly self-centered.

The Thracian's hard eyes softened a little, looking at him. "No. But it did." He stripped off his loincloth in one quick motion, and Bucky had to sink his teeth into his lower lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound. Spartacus paid him no mind, wetting a cloth with water and running it over his chest, his armpits, his groin. He poured more water directly on his hair, and it trickled down the beautiful lines of his face. Desire swept through Bucky, swift and hot like grassfire, and as unwanted in that moment. The man had just told him of terrible losses, by all the gods. 

"What is her name?" Bucky said instead. Spartacus paused in the act of toweling himself off and looked at him. "Your mother. I could look for her."

Spartacus tossed the damp cloth to the side and bent to pick up the fabric on the bedding, which turned out to be a tunic. He pulled it over his head, and Bucky tried not to watch the way it clung to his still-damp skin, the flex of the muscles in his side. "Why?" he said finally. "Why would you want to do that?"

"I have resources with you don't," Bucky said, feeling awkward. "Why wouldn't I use them?"

"It's very…kind," Spartacus said, as if the word did not quite fit in his mouth."I don't see any reason for you to be kind." His expression changed suddenly, the line of his mouth going harder, the corner of it tipping up into something that was not so much a smile as cynicism expressed in the curve of his lips. "Unless you're looking to get me into bed, in which case there are easier ways to do it."

"No," Bucky said, a pit opening in his stomach. "No, that's not why I said that. That isn't what I want--not all that I want," basic honesty compelled him to add. Then he heard the words that had come out of his mouth and set his cup on the floor so that he could cover his face with both hands. He groaned. "It's not--I'm saying this all wrong. I admire what you've done in the arena. I feel something--I don't know how to explain it. I feel a connection to you."

"A connection," Spartacus said flatly.

"I know it sounds stupid," Bucky told the inside of his fingers. "I'll go now."

Warm, calloused fingers wrapped around his wrist and pulled his hands away from his face. "No," Spartacus said. His expression was sharper now, almost shrewd. "Stay. Drink your wine. Tell me about yourself."

So Bucky did, in halting, awkward words, at first. He told him more than he meant to as one cup of wine turned into three; he told him about growing up as the younger son, his father's disappointment. He told him about his older brother, out earning a place in the army, and his sisters, the beloved apples of his father's eye, to be sent away into profitable marriages when the time was right. He did not tell him that he sometimes felt trapped as much as any slave; it would have been unbearably rude. 

He looked out the small window at one point, and startled. The sun was low enough that the sky was purpling into darkness. "I should go," he said. "I'm sorry. I wanted to know more about you and all I've done is talk about myself."

"It's all right," Spartacus said. "I asked you."

"Could I--could I see you again?"

"If you like," Spartacus said. He looked at Bucky for a moment, his eyes sharp. "Her name is Saraepyris. I call her Sarae."

A flood of warmth bubbled up in Bucky's gut. He could be useful to this man. "Saraepyris of Thrace. I will ask after her."

"Thank you," Spartacus said. He hooked long fingers through the handle of the amphora and offered it back to Bucky.

"Keep it," Bucky said. "And...thank you."

At that, Spartacus smiled. A real smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed his white teeth.

Bucky stammered his way through a goodbye and left. He would do a lot of things to see that smile again, he thought. He held the memory of it as he walked home to another interminable family dinner, pressed it flat as a dried bay leaf to flavor his thoughts while his father droned on.

And in the morning, he made a few discreet inquiries about Saraepyris from Thrace.

*

It took weeks for his queries to bear fruit; weeks in which he went to the arena to watch Spartacus fight; weeks in which he came to his room afterwards to share wine or food with him.

He learned more about the older man. Spartacus told him about the village where he had lived, the mountains, and the dark, choppy sea with its high winds. He heard about the people who had lived there, heard the grief that threaded the Thracian's voice when he spoke of them.

He heard too of the battles Spartacus had fought, both as a warrior for Thrace and in the arena. Spartacus told him about the camaraderie of the gladiators, and some of their petty feuds--not so different, Bucky told him, from the relentless political maneuvering that his father engaged in.

Bucky didn't stop wanting him; on the contrary, he wanted him more and more the more he knew him; but the wanting was tempered by what Bucky was coming to think of as the honor of his friendship.

Or, he hoped it was friendship. 

It was hard not to think of it that way when they were trading confidences, but Bucky could never forget that his father owned this man, and if it felt like an invisible knife held between them to him, what must it feel like to the other man?

Bucky didn't ask.

On the third week, one of his inquiries was answered. Saraepyris of Thrace was serving as a maid of all work--here in Capua. The household was a senator's, but Bucky didn't think they would be particularly attached to a new maid, and an older one at that. He could--he could buy her, he supposed, and then--what? Get her into his own household? Free her? Reunite her with Spartacus?

He didn't know what to do.

But Spartacus might.

*

Bucky hadn't felt this nervous to see the Thracian since the first time he'd met him. But then, he was breaking their pattern--going to see him in the middle of the morning on a day when no games were scheduled at the arena.

Doctore raised an eyebrow to see him.

"I need to see Spartacus," Bucky said.

"Why do I have the feeling you're up to no good?" Doctore said, which seemed unfair. Bucky was, perhaps for the first time in his life, doing significant good. Maybe. He hoped.

The gladiators were practicing with blunted weapons. Bucky watched for a minute as Doctore crossed the sands and tapped Spartacus on the shoulder. He and the other gladiator, the Falcon, sprang apart as Doctore approached, and Spartacus nodded, and then his eyes found Bucky's unerringly.

Spartacus led Bucky back to his room, wiping his face as he went.

"Is everything all right?" he asked as soon as they were alone together.

"I hope so," Bucky said. "I've found Sarae."

The change in Spartacus's face was like a lightning strike. It occurred to Bucky that he had never seen anything like hope on his face before, because he had never seen this expression. Bucky didn't make him ask.

"She's here, in Capua. A senator's house. I can--I was thinking, I could buy her, and then free her, or--I don't know what the right thing to do here is. But I thought--you might know." 

Spartacus ran a hand through his hair. "Bucky," he said, and reached forward to clasp Bucky's hand in his and pull him into a rough, fast embrace. Bucky tried not to choke on his own tongue at the feel of the Thracian's hard muscles beneath his hands, but even more the sound of his name on his lips. 

He had never called him that before. 

"Thank you. We'll figure it out."

"Anything I can do to help," Bucky said, trying not to cling as Spartacus released him.

Spartacus barked out a laugh. His eyes were bluer than Bucky had ever seen them. "You've already helped, so much." He hesitated, then reached forward to clasp Bucky's forearm again. "My name was Stepalykos." That real smile creased his face again, and Bucky caught his breath at the sight of it. "But my friends call me Steve." 


	2. a bargain made; a kiss; a question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky takes Steve with him to retrieve Sarae.

Steve stretched carefully, to keep his cooling muscles from stiffening up. He’d had a good practice round with Thor, or the Visigoth, as he was known in the arena. Doctore wanted them to fight again since their last bout had been so wildly popular. Steve didn't mind; he liked sparring with the other man. He sluiced himself off with water from the pump; it was hardly a substitute for a real bath, but at least it got some of the sweat off of him. Bucky was likely to visit today.

He shook his head like a dog shaking off water and went toward the edge of the arena, where the gladiators were quartered.

"Is your little  _ dominus  _ coming to visit today?" Steve looked to see the Falcon—Sam—walking beside him, fresh off his own practice session.

Steve lowered his voice automatically. "I don't yet know," he admitted. "But I hope so."

Sam just nodded. He was one of Steve's closer friends among the gladiators. He fought honestly, and hard, without seeming to feel the bite of competition the way some of the other men did, and Steve had felt no qualms about entrusting the secret of his mother's presence in Capua to him. Some of the other men, though…

"Looks like your pretty young thing is here to get fucked again," Crossbones said, pointing to where Bucky made a silhouette against the sky, standing by the entrance of the  _ ludus _ . The other man hadn't heard what he and Sam were saying, Steve thought, but had simply observed the younger Batiatus come to the practice arena. "Unless he's doing the fucking," Crossbones added mockingly. Steve had never liked the older man; he was constantly scheming for advancement, and Steve wouldn't trust him to tie his sandals.

"It's not like that," Steve said, raising one shoulder in a shrug, although he doubted the other man would believe him. It was the far more likely explanation for Bucky's visits to his room; Steve himself still wasn't sure why Bucky was helping him this way.

Steve broke away from the other men with a clapped hand on Sam's shoulder, and a nod to Crossbones. He headed to his room, not bothering to look up and confirm that Bucky saw him. If Bucky wanted him, he knew where to find him. His heart beat a little faster, though. Maybe today, Bucky would have more information about Sarae.

Steve didn't understand why Bucky was helping him, though he was very glad that he was. Part of it, he thought, was that the younger men wanted him in the way that Crossbones had suggested—he had implied as much the first time they'd spoken—but he hadn't acted on it. Instead, he had gone about looking for the most important person left in Steve's life. 

Steve didn't know what to do with that.

He had not resigned himself to the loss of his freedom, and he never would; but he didn't know what to do with a Roman who tried to help him, seemingly with no expectation of anything in return. It wasn't the way the world worked, and it certainly wasn't the way Rome worked.

He changed out of his leather practice armor, less ornamented than what he wore for fights in the arena, and was wearing a simple tunic by the time Bucky came into his room. Bucky knocked, as he always did, and waited for Steve to tell him to come in before entering the room. It was a courtesy that Steve appreciated.

He appreciated, too, the way Bucky looked at him. It was a combination of some sort of hero worship and desire. Bucky was not particularly subtle. It was flattering, in a way; Bucky was handsome, the strong lines of his face only somewhat softened with his youth. Although he was not a fighter, and did not have a fighter's body, he must have spent some time at the gymnasium, because he was lithe and his limbs were not unmuscled. He was clothed in fine linen, youthful and comely, and had Steve met him passing through Thrace, he would have thought nothing of accepting the invitation in Bucky's every glance at him.

But he was not in Thrace, and Bucky was the son of the man who owned him. 

Bucky offered him his forearm to clasp, and Steve took it, not trying to impress upon the younger man his greater physical strength, but not shying from it either. Bucky looked up at him, and Steve noted absently how dark and long his eyelashes were.

"I've set it up," Bucky said. "Tomorrow. We can go to buy her tomorrow." 

"We?" Steve felt flushed with incredulity. "You want to take me with you?"

"Well—yes?" The young son of Batratius turned a charming pink, and he sounded uncertain of his own answers. "I thought you would want to see her, to be certain I have the right person. And… I thought it must be frightening for her to have another change in circumstance so soon after the last. Seeing you, she'll know that she's safe."

It was a kind sentiment, if hopelessly naïve, and Steve felt a strange melting sensation in his chest. Bucky looks at the world a different way than Steve did, a gentler way, perhaps. "Nothing in this life is ever safe," Steve said, to remind them both. Certainly the youngest son of the  _ lanista  _ was anything but, no matter how he kept surprising Steve. Still, he was the only means of reuniting with Sarae that Steve had.

"I didn't mean—" Bucky said, still blushing.

"No, I understand," Steve said. "Yes, please. I would be happy to go with you."

"I'll clear it with Doctore," Bucky said.

Impulsively, Steve put his hand on the younger man's upper arm. His skin was warm through the fine-woven linen of his tunic. "Thank you, Bucky." Steve should have let go immediately, but instead let his hand linger a moment longer, until he realized that his thumb was stroking over the curve of Bucky's bicep. Steve let go hastily, and turned away to hide his own confusion.

"I'll come for you tomorrow around noon." Bucky sounded a little breathless.

"I'll see you then."

*

The next day, Bucky was prompt, and Doctore just shook his head as he told Steve he could go. "This is dangerous foolishness, Spartacus," he said. "Try to live more carefully than you fight in the arena."

"Good advice," Steve murmured.

"Not that you'll follow it," Doctore said acerbically.

"I'll try," Steve said.

The house Bucky led him to was not so fine as Batratius's estate, but it was still far grander than the gladiators' quarters. Of course, they might well have housed their slaves someplace even worse than Steve's little room. It wasn't his room itself that was so terrible, although it was small; it was the lack of freedom that it represented. In Thrace, he had been able to come and go as he pleased, more or less. Here he was at the whim of Doctore and the  _ dominus _ .

Bucky shot him a quick, searching look, and Steve wasn't sure whether he was trying to reassure Bucky or himself when he smiled back.

The door opened quickly enough, and a young maid came to take their cloaks. She led them back, deeper into the house, to a small office. The man waiting there for them was unremarkable to Steve, or he would have been, had he not held the power to keep him from his mother. Bucky greeted him politely, although not nearly as warmly as he had always spoken to Steve. That was all right; Steve found that he didn't want Bucky speaking so warmly to anyone else, anyway.

"Welcome, Balius Lentulus Batiatus." The man smiled eagerly. "You have come to purchase a slave?" He gestured to a seat for Bucky and Bucky took it, Steve coming to stand behind his shoulder.

"Indeed," Bucky said. "The Thracian I mentioned in my correspondence."

"Interesting that such a purchase is in the purview of the young master of the house," the man said. “It’s rare that such transactions are handled personally by citizens."

Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek. Was it? He wanted this purchase of his mother to be as unmemorable as possible.

Bucky straightened in his seat, and shot the man a quelling look. “I wish to purchase a maidservant for my mother, and this one came recommended well. If you’d rather I left and sent a slave in my place..." Bucky lifted an eyebrow and all of a sudden he looked patrician and commanding. Steve didn't know what to think of it; he didn't like that he liked seeing his kind friends suddenly become a  _ dominus _ . It highlighted yet again all the distance that lay between them.

But the master of slaves was apologizing, obsequious, snapping his fingers to send the girl that had brought them in fetch Sarae. Steve's heartbeat caught in his throat when the girl came back with his mother in tow.

Sarae looked up and saw him, and her eyes opened wide, but that was all she allowed herself before she was under control again. She caught his eyes for a fraction of a second, and between them passed an unspoken understanding, that no one would know but the two of them.

And Bucky. Bucky knew it too, because he too was watching for that spark of recognition. And when he saw it he looked away from Steve and Sarae, back to the master of slaves, and said, "Yes, this one. This one is the one that I want." He took a leather satchel of coins from his belt and set it on the desk in front of the master of slaves. The other man picked it up and weighed it in his palm, considering.

"It's all there." Bucky sounded bored.

"Of course,  _ dominus, _ " the master of slaves said. He passed over a scroll, the deed of ownership. Bucky took it, and even though it was what they had discussed, Steve felt hot resentment choking him. But then his mother caught his eyes, and he saw all the questions there, and he knew that resentment would have to wait for another day. Right now, he had his mother and she needed him.

The transaction settled, Bucky and the master exchanged a meaningless series of greetings, while Steve and Sarae waited. And then it was over, more quickly than Steve could have imagined, and the three of them were walking back towards the house of Batiatus.

"Mother," Steve said in Thracian.

She drew in a gasping breath, as if she had not quite believed that he had really come for her, that she was really going to see her son.

"It's all right," Bucky said. "It will be. I'm going to introduce you to the head of the household, and he will tell you what you need to do. But for tonight, you may stay with Steve. With Spartacus," Bucky corrected himself

Sarae was no fool; Bucky was one of the masters. Likewise, she could tell that if Bucky said to call him Spartacus, then Spartacus he was to be called.

"Master, I don't know how to thank you," she said.

To Steve's surprise, Bucky took both of her hands between his. "This makes nothing right. I know that. But you and your son will be together."

Steve had to swallow hard before he could speak. "I'll find a way to make this up to you," he said.

"You don't have to do that." Bucky looked down, shy and hesitant, but pleased, Steve thought. "That's not why—"

Steve let go of his mother's hand, and shot her a reassuring glance.

He pulled Bucky around the corner and wrapped his fingers around both of Bucky's biceps. His flesh was just as solid and warm as it had felt earlier. He pulled the slighter man to him and bent down to press a hot, unchaste kiss to his lips. Bucky didn't kiss back for a long moment, and Steve might've thought he had read the situation wrong, if he had not been certain of the other man's desire—certain of his own desire. But then Bucky kissed him back like he was dying on the sands and Steve was a cool drink of water. He licked up into his mouth, and Steve felt his teeth, his tongue, the movements of a living body that wanted the touch of another body.

"I'm sorry." Bucky broke it off with a gasp.

"Why?" Steve said roughly. "I'm not."

"You don't owe me anything," Bucky said awkwardly, and Steve felt a rough surge of affection. He hardly knew him, and he didn't—yet—trust him, but he  _ liked  _ this young, unpolished Roman.

"I know," Steve murmured. He pulled Bucky back into the circle of his arms and kissed him more carefully, a promise and a prelude for later—if Bucky wanted. He pulled away and raised a hand to trace the path from one wide gray eye to the corner of Bucky's mouth, catching the pad of his finger in the corner of those full lips, flushed red with kisses, slightly parted with desire. "But maybe there's something we both want, outside of any talk of debts." 

"Do you mean it?" Hope was written all over Bucky's face, as clear to read as footprints on a riverbank. Time would beat the easy emotions out of him, Steve was sure, but there was an appeal to the thought of this young man opening up to him, to his wallowing in the ease of him. There were those who might like to beat the innocence out of a youth like this, but Steve wasn't one of them. Steve would cherish that openness as long as it lasted, if he had the chance to taste it.

"Come to me some night and find out," Steve murmured, and let his hand fall away.

Bucky stared after him, wide-eyed, and Steve smiled at him and turned back around the corner where his mother was waiting.

"I hope you know what you're doing with that young man," Sarae said in an undertone, in Thracian. "He might stare at you like a beggar at a feast, but he's still a Roman citizen."

"I know," Steve said, "but he brought you to me."

"Be careful,  Stepalykos ," she said.

"I always am." He put an arm around her shoulder and turned, steering them both toward the gladiator barracks. "They'll reassign you tomorrow; tonight, tell me how you've been."

She snaked a hand around his waist and looked up at him, the corners of her mouth turning up. He loved the blue of her eyes, twin to his own, the dark gold of her hair now streaked with gray. "I think you have a lot to tell me."

He laughed, but she wasn't wrong.

*

Quintus Lentulus Batiatus sat in his office, going over his accounts. The life of a  _ lanista  _ was not often a glamorous one; he was always at the bottom of high society—prized for the spectacle his gladiators provided, but reviled for being the one to provide it.

He hoped for better for his children, but his sons were both disappointments in their own ways, and while the daughters might yet prove to be fruitful, there was no sense in counting on that offering bringing the gods' favor.

His eldest son Sextus might yet be successful, a warrior whose reknown might bring favor on the name of Batatius, but Balius was good for nothing much, too good looking for his own good. In Rome, a boy that pretty might be used to curry favor—nothing that could bring shame on his family name, of course—but here, he was wasted. He had not proven himself in any way outside the  _ schola _ ; he was good for nothing so far but translations of Greek poetry and ogling the actual warriors of the ring. Batiatus had hoped that he was meant for more than this, a post in Rome, perhaps, but maybe he should confine his hopes to the older brother. The army was a nobler path to recognition than whatever it was that Bucky was doing.

A new wax tablet was added to the accounts already before him, and Batiatus frowned. He was no mathematician; perhaps it was better to summon Doctore and see what he said about the numbers. But then he noted the seal on the deed for his newest slave, Saraepyris of Thrace.

Why was his son buying slaves for the household?

Batratius frowned.

This bore further investigation. 


	3. a taste of honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve reached out, slowly, and took Bucky's wrist. His big fingers wrapped around the narrow bones of Bucky's arm, and it felt like a brand. Bucky's heart sped, and he was afraid that Steve could hear it pounding through his chest. His grasp wasn't hard, though, despite his size; he held Bucky's arm gently, the touch a comfort instead of a grip to hold. Slowly, his thumb moved over the sensitive skin where Bucky's veins showed blue against his inner arm. Bucky had to remind himself to breathe.
> 
> "You don't have to bring me things, Bucky," Steve said softly. "I enjoy your company."
> 
> "Oh," Bucky said, more a breath than a word. "You do?"
> 
> *
> 
> In which Bucky invites Steve on a picnic away from the _ludus._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE!! the rating has changed! this AU is now explicit. I have updated the tags--if I missed anything, please let me know. <3 
> 
> ALSO you might notice i have updated the chapter count to 5--that is a WILD GUESS and it may well end up longer. All that said, hope you enjoy! <3

Bucky was by now a familiar visitor at the  _ ludus. _ It did not keep him from sneaking in, careful to visit Steve only when he was unobserved. He liked to think that he was being a realist; he knew that his father could not possibly approve of the type of relationship he wanted to have with Steve, and honestly the thought of any of his family knowing about it made Bucky feel a weight in the pit of his stomach, as if he had eaten lead. They would only sully this thin thread of friendship that was growing between him and the gladiator.

Doctore knew, and that was more than enough.

Bucky had taken to visiting at odd hours, when he knew there were no practices scheduled; these days he knew the schedule of the  _ ludus  _ better than he knew his own. He usually brought something to eat or drink—he had known his family ate better than the gladiators, but he hadn't realized by how much—and besides, he wanted Steve to feel he was getting something out of Bucky's visits as well.

Today, he'd brought pastries from the kitchen, a tisane, still hot, in a clay pitcher, and an invitation.

Steve was more open now in greeting him, he thought, even though they were only ever meeting in Steve's room. Steve pulled him into a quick, tight embrace, Bucky fitting neatly under his arm.

"Steve," Bucky breathed. He couldn’t help the hitch in his voice. They had only kissed the once, but he thought about it every time he was close to the gladiator.

"Bucky," Steve said, and Bucky couldn't hide how hearing his name from him made his pulse beat in his throat. 

"I know tomorrow the  _ ludus  _ is closed for repairs to the ring," Bucky said diffidently. He was nearly vibrating at the thought of taking Steve somewhere away from his father's house, even if only for a few hours. "Do you have plans?"

"In the morning," Steve said. His deep voice never failed to send a shiver up Bucky's spine. "My mother is visiting."

"But the afternoon is free?"

Steve nodded in answer to Bucky's question, a faint smile curving his lips.

"If you wanted to—and it's fine if you don't want to, really!—I thought maybe we could take a lunch by the river, if—if you wanted. Just to get away from the  _ ludus  _ for a while." Bucky's cheeks were burning by the end of that little speech, and he hoped that the earth might open up and swallow him down if Steve said no.

But Steve didn't say no; he was stern, but he was also kind. And he had kissed Bucky, so maybe he thought about the two of them away from the  _ ludus  _ the way that Bucky did. "I would enjoy that," Steve said slowly. "You brought food today as well?"

Bucky held up his offerings and set them down on top of the chest at the foot of Steve's bed. "Some things I thought you might enjoy."

Steve reached out, slowly, and took Bucky's wrist. His big fingers wrapped around the narrow bones of Bucky's arm, and it felt like a brand. Bucky's heart sped, and he was afraid that Steve could hear it pounding through his chest. His grasp wasn't hard, though, despite his size; he held Bucky's arm gently, the touch a comfort instead of a grip to hold. Slowly, his thumb moved over the sensitive skin where Bucky's veins showed blue against his inner arm. Bucky had to remind himself to breathe.

"You don't have to bring me things, Bucky," Steve said softly. "I enjoy your company."

"Oh," Bucky said, more a breath than a word. "You do?"

Steve lifted his other hand, without letting go of Bucky's wrist and gently cupped his jaw. Callused fingers swept over the skin of Bucky's cheek. Bucky could no more have looked away from the Thracian's blue eyes, intent on his own face, than he could have flown. He wondered what Steve saw there—an untried youth, or someone for whom he might feel desire?

"Balius!" Doctore's voice rang out through the  _ ludus _ , and Bucky jumped, although Steve did not. He simply squeezed Bucky's wrist and let go, his hand on Bucky's face lingering a moment longer before he pulled it away.

"Better go see what he wants," Steve murmured.

"I should," Bucky said, even as Doctore called his name again.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Steve told him, and even as Bucky turned to leave, Steve caught his arm again, at the bicep this time, and pressed his lips to Bucky's forehead so gently that he barely felt it.

"Tomorrow," Bucky said, and he knew he sounded breathless, but it couldn't be helped.

Steve smiled at him. "I'm looking forward to it."

Bucky shut the door behind him and went to find Doctore.

*

The next morning, Steve was up early, the same as always, but today was different; there would be no practice, no sparring with the other gladiators. Instead, he was to see his mother, and then leave the  _ ludus  _ with Bucky. 

Steve had only seen his mother in brief snatches of time since she had come to live at the house of Batiatus. He had his work in the  _ ludus _ , and she had her work in the house, and rarely did the two paths cross. She was not like Bucky, who could come and go more or less as he pleased; her time was only rarely her own, and of course, neither was Steve's.

But Steve had spoken to Doctore, and  _ he  _ had spoken to the master of the household slaves, and she was coming this morning.

He had saved the pastries that Bucky had brought him, since the young Roman had been unable to stay and eat them with him. One day's staleness would not detract much from their flavor. Likewise, he had pulled the sachet of herbs from the tisane, so that it would not over-steep and grow bitter, and the clay pitcher was by the fire warming. It was not the kind of breakfast they would have shared in their village in Thrace: figs, and goat cheese, and Sarae's flatbread, warm from sitting wrapped in the coals overnight, or occasionally fresh fish, piping hot and flaking on their fingertips as they ate.

No, this was different, and not as good; but it was what he had to offer.

It was strange to hear no bell calling them to the practice yard—and strange to think that he missed it, that he was already so acclimated to this life. But what other choice was there?

He did not believe that the gods had ordained this fate for him, nor did he believe that fate left him no choices. He was hard-pressed to give his faith to gods that could shatter his entire world over in one horrible day. He had accepted that he could not change what had happened to his village. He could not pick up the shards of clay and have the wine run back into the amphora. The people he'd known his entire life were gone, dead or scattered throughout Rome, and it was only luck that had brought his mother this close to him—luck, and a young Roman who… What? Bucky had gone to a lot of trouble if this was some boyish fancy. And yet, he hardly knew Steve well enough to feel some genuine emotion for him. It troubled Steve, not knowing the why of it.

He was beginning to think that Bucky truly wanted nothing in return for the great gift of bringing his mother closer to him. Men had been known to make grand gestures for the possibility of a fuck, but Steve didn't think that this was it, or not only. He felt drawn to the young Roman himself in a way that could not be explained as mere sexual attraction—although that was certainly there as well. Maybe Bucky, too, felt some thread between them, tugging them closer. All Steve knew was that he would have to be careful. He didn't trust whatever their tenuous connection was to withstand any difficulty. It was too fragile, too new; he would have to nurse it like a new flame if it were to survive.

He completed his morning ablutions and returned to his small room, and had only a few moments to anticipate before a soft knock at the door heralded his mother. He flung open the door and welcomed her in. He wasn't sure that there could be anything more satisfying than wrapping his arms around his mother's narrow shoulders. She clung to him too, her hands tight around his rib cage.

"Oh, Stepalykos," she murmured, and if her voice was tight with unshed tears, well, he was holding back some of his own. He had to clear his throat before he could ask her to come in, waving her to the bed while he took a seat on the chest where he stored his belongings.

"You look well," he said once they were seated. "Are they treating you kindly? I hope I have not brought you into a worse situation than the one you left."

Sarae smiled tightly at that. "I would rather be here, where I can see you. Neither house was terrible, but this one is better."

Relief from a worry he hardly knew he had been carrying flooded him. He sighed deeply. "I'm glad. I've missed you"

Her eyes softened. "I missed you too." She reached out and took his hand, the skin rough from her work, but her grip strong. "Tell me, what is it like, fighting for entertainment?"

He snorted, and tightened his fingers around hers. "Very different from fighting for our village. The other men are mostly not so bad. Most of the time, it's like a game—we have practice bouts all the time, not to fight more efficiently, but to learn to put on a better show. Anyone might be injured, but that's a hazard of any combat—but for the most part they would rather we not to kill each other. Our upkeep and training is too expensive to spend our lives so freely."

"At least there's that," she said, though her smile did not entirely ease. "And the young  _ dominus  _ who did you the favor that brought me here, you see him often?"

He felt the corner of his lips tip up into a smile. She had never been one to pull punches. "He comes to see me every few days."

"Be careful," she said, her eyebrows drawn together to form a pin-scratch line.

"I will," he said. "It's not the first time you've cautioned me about him."

"I don't want to see you get hurt," she said in a whisper. "I know there's nothing he could do to you physically, but there are other kinds of wounds."

"He has taken nothing—asked for nothing." Steve wrapped his other hand around hers also, and squeezed gently.

"He is a Roman," she said simply. "When the time comes to call in his favor, he may not ask, and he will not hear your yes or no."

Steve thought about Bucky saying that Steve owed him nothing, thought about the open set of his features that hid none of the emotions flitting across his face. She did not trust him, but Steve thought he was as genuine has he could be, given the difference in their stations.

"We are both aware that he is a citizen and I am a slave, and yet…" He looked at his mother, the set of her mouth was a flat line, disbelieving. "I'll be careful," he said instead of trying to describe whatever feelings might lie between them.

"Oh, Steve, I'm your mother. I've been there for all your bad decisions. We both know that's not true." But the smile she gave him this time was open and unforced. "Now tell me, how do you spend your days? I want to know everything."

He accepted the change of subject gratefully, and the two of them passed a pleasant hour talking, until she had to leave to return to the house.

Steve was in a thoughtful mood as he waited for Bucky to return to him. Despite that Steve had directly invited him to, Bucky had never visited him at night. There were some gladiators who had a string of noble visitors most nights, and had made a plump nest egg of coin or rare gifts. Doctore had told him that people, men and women alike, had offered money for a night with Steve, but for all they could make him fight for his life, he was not a prostitute and they could not—or maybe only  _ did  _ not—force him to fuck.

Perhaps he was glad that Bucky had not come to him that way; he didn't see Bucky as a potential source of wealth, and he didn't think Bucky saw him as anything so simple as a night of pleasure. He couldn't say exactly how he  _ did  _ see Bucky, but—not like that.

Bucky did not leave him waiting long. He never did. He didn't come to Steve's room this time; instead Doctore summoned Steve to his office.

"Balius will be here soon," Doctore said quietly, his lone eye darting to Steve's face. "This is a dangerous game you play, Spartacus. Batiatus has other plans for his son than a dalliance with a gladiator. You'd do well to discourage him." 

"It's not a game to me," Steve said. He respected the older man, and was wary of the power Doctore held over him, but he didn't fear him, and would not live his life according to what would make things easier for him.

"If you say so," Doctore said, and then his expression changed, and without turning or hearing a sound, Steve knew that Bucky was there. Doctore held power, but he too was a slave, and he would not talk to Steve the same way in front of a  _ dominus _ , even one so mild as Bucky.

"Thank you for coming," Bucky said to Steve, and he felt a wave of affection wash over him. Bucky's eyes were as open as ever, reflecting his eagerness to take Steve away from the  _ ludus _ . No doubt Doctore saw it too, but Steve couldn't mind. "I brought a cloak for you," Bucky went on. He was holding a woven basket as well, and Steve took it from him after he wrapped himself in linen much finer than he generally wore.

Doctore shook his head as they left, but Steve couldn't make himself care. The day was sunny and warm, the cloak Bucky had lent him a welcome shield from the bright rays of the sun.

"Where are we going?" Steve asked after they had gone down enough streets that he no longer felt the shadow of the  _ ludus  _ on his back.

"There's a cypress grove by the river," Bucky said, casting a shy glance Steve's way. "It's one of my favorite places to get away. No one much goes there."

"It sounds lovely," Steve told him. It would have been unbearable to reply in any way that might have quashed the hope on his face. Steve adjusted his grip on the basket and took the opportunity to glance around surreptitiously. He was sure he looked like nothing more than a manservant carrying something for his master, but he'd hardly had the chance to see anything of Capua except the  _ ludus _ , so he looked.

The streets were bustling, full of citizens and noncitizens alike going about their business, hair and skin in every combination of colors he could imagine, clothes in the styles of every province of Rome. There was trade on the river as well as over land, Steve was vaguely aware; Capua was known for its luxuries—of which gladiators were only one. He drank in the sight of so many people, moving freely, a river of color and sound to rival the Volturnus itself, after the seclusion of the  _ ludus _ . It was good to be reminded that there were people only minutes' walk away who didn't have to live by the blade. 

Bucky led him down a side street, away from the commercial district and into a lane of apartment buildings crowded like gossiping old men. Green vines grew on the walls and he thought he could feel a breath of cooler air. It was quieter here, the streets walked by fewer people as they got away from the city center. The landscape slowly descended, much gentler than in the mountains of his homeland, and the buildings were fewer and farther in between. Bucky pointed out the occasional point of interest as they went, his shoulders coming down along with the elevation the further they got from his father's house. 

"Here," Bucky said when they were perhaps half an hour outside of town, and led him down a set of stone steps so old they were dished in the middle by the tread of countless feet. Etruscan, perhaps—another people who had been subsumed by Roman conquest.

Bucky shot him an eager look over his shoulder as he led him down the steps, and Steve put the thought aside, to be contemplated another time, perhaps.

Cypress trees grew thick here, and the day was warm enough that their shade was welcome. Steve could see how this place was not frequented—it was far enough away from town and the only feature of interest was a grove of trees—but he could see why Bucky liked it, too. Between the tall trees, the ground was thick with soft moss. The air was redolent with the smell of evergreens, and the cool muddy scent of the riverbank. The river was relatively narrow and quick here, joined by a narrow stream, and the sound of water rushing over stone made a pleasant counterpoint to birds calling in the branches above them.

"Are you hungry? There's lunch in the basket." Bucky smiled up at him, though there was not much difference in their height. Steve liked the bright glint of his eyes through his dark lashes.

"Yes," Steve said. He was; hungry for food, yes, but also, he found, for the touch of the young man in front of him. For companionship. He wanted him, and perhaps he wanted to test whether what he had told his mother was true. Would Bucky take, given the opportunity, or would he continue to treat Steve as he had—like a person he wanted to know better? Maybe it was a risk, but there was only one way for Steve to find out.

Bucky took off his cloak and spread it over the moss to make a place for them to sit. After a moment's thought, Steve took his off as well, and rearranged the fabric so that his cloak would take the brunt of the dirt, not Bucky's. It was because he would have less explaining to do about a dirty hem, but that it made Bucky blush so charmingly was certainly an added benefit.

Bucky had brought quite a spread for them: flatbread with a small jug of olive oil, hard cheese, figs and olives, and honey in a comb. He had wine in a leather flask, and two wooden cups that they could dip in the stream to water it with. Sitting under the open air by the river, beneath the protective screen of the cypress trees, with easy conversation about nothing of consequence flowing between the two of them—Steve thought it was the most pleasant meal that he could remember, certainly since he had come to Capua.

They split the honeycomb at the end of the meal, the thick liquid sweet on Steve's lips, a perfect cap to the salty sharpness of the olives and cheese. Bucky poured the rest of the wine into what was already in their cups, the last of the flask a little stronger, a little sweeter, then what they'd drunk before. He pulled his hand back from the leather with a faint grimace.

"I'm sticky," he said, and laughing, brought his thumbs to his lips.

Steve didn't question the impulse, although it was not one he would have followed at the  _ ludus _ . He took Bucky's wrist, gently, slowly enough that he could've pulled away if he wanted, and brought his still-honeyed hand to his own mouth. Bucky watched him, eyes wide, as Steve put Bucky's thumb between his lips and sucked.

His skin was salty beneath the sweet. Steve flattened his tongue to lick the honey off, then pulled off Bucky's thumb only to take his forefinger into his mouth, licking away every trace of sweetness until there was only the taste of his skin. Steve curled his own fingers around Bucky's smaller hand, and gave his finger one more lick. Bucky's pulse fluttered visibly at his throat like birds' wings, and Steve felt like he was holding something fragile and feathered cupped between the palms of his hands.

"Steve," Bucky whispered.

Steve took Bucky finger out of his mouth, but did not release his hand, cradling it instead to his chest, trapped beneath his own, over his heart.

"This place is beautiful," Steve said. "Thank you for bringing me here."

Bucky's fingers curved against Steve's sternum, but he made no move to pull his hand away. "You don't have to—I didn't bring you here to—you don't owe me anything."

"So you said before," Steve observed. He felt bright with happiness, vindicated that he had judged Bucky correctly. "I told you to come see me some night, but you didn't. Did you not wish to?" Steve didn't think that he had misread the situation, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd been wrong.

"I wanted to." Bucky's cheeks flushed again, and his eyes were dark, pupils dilated as he looked at Steve. "But not—not like that. I didn't want to—I know nobles come to see the gladiators as if they were prostitutes. I don't feel that way about you, and that's not how I want it to be between us."

"How do you feel, then?" Steve's voice was low. He wasn't sure what he felt himself, only that Bucky had not once yet been what he expected. "What do you want?"

"That there's a connection between us." Bucky's face was scarlet, and he looked at their clasped hands instead of Steve's face, as though that made it easier to speak. "More than just attraction. I want to know everything about you. Maybe it sounds stupid, maybe I'm naive to think that's even something you might want—but I want to know you more than I've ever wanted to know anyone in my life. Your body, yes, but everything else about you, too. What you think. What your past has been."

Steve reached out with his other hand and tucked it beneath Bucky's strong jaw and exerted the slightest pressure to lift it. When Bucky looked at him, Steve fitted his thumb right into the divot in the center of his chin. "It's probably naive to think it has a chance of working," Steve agreed, and before Bucky had the chance to wilt, he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his soft mouth. "But you make me want to be naive with you."

"Oh," Bucky mouthed silently.

"You're right." Steve let his hand fall away from Bucky's face now that Bucky's gaze was fixed on him. "I don't want to have the kind of trysts with you that the other gladiators have with the nobles that come to the  _ ludus _ ." He pressed Bucky's hand flat against his heart, let him feel the strength of its beats. 

Bucky licked his lips, and Steve couldn't pretend to be unaffected. He had started out thinking that he would play whatever game the son of Batiatus wanted to get his mother back, but now he had her back, and he meant what he had told Doctore: he wasn't playing a game at all anymore. He didn't think Bucky ever had been.

"Maybe...maybe places like here, we could try." Bucky's face was still red, but his eyes were clear, watching Steve. "It wouldn't be like that the  _ ludus _ , and no one from there could touch us here." 

Steve thought that was just as naive, really, to think that what they had could ever be unsullied by where they came from, but it was as he had told Bucky: he wanted to be naive with him. "I want it," he said, just to be clear. "I want that with you, whatever it ends up being." 

Bucky's smile was brilliant. Steve let go of his hand, but only so he could grab him by the shoulders and pull him closer. Bucky's head tilted up, and Steve cupped the back of his head in his hand, fingers threaded through the silky strands of his hair. Bucky's lips were parted and his eyes half-lidded, and this time, Steve's mother wasn't waiting around the corner. This time, they both knew it was welcome.

So he took his time, kissing his way softly from the corner of Bucky's mouth to the middle, kissing him closed-mouthed until Bucky made a sound deep in his throat. Then he licked against his lower lip, and when Bucky's lips opened on a gasp, he kissed him deeply. They were sitting side by side, turned to face each other, and it was awkward with how much he wanted to curl his body around the younger man's. He wrapped one arm around Bucky and lowered them both onto the fine linen of their cloaks. Bucky clutched at his chest but didn't break their kiss or try to soften the fall.

Steve rolled so they were on their sides, so he could keep kissing Bucky and get his hands on him. He had no intention of rushing this, but at the same time, he had no idea whether they would get many opportunities to be alone like this, or if it would happen again any time soon. He also didn't know if Bucky had ever done this, with a woman or a man, but at least that lack of knowledge he could remedy by asking.

He pulled back just far enough to look Bucky in the eyes. He was flushed and dazed-looking, just from kissing. Steve reached out and pushed his hair back off his forehead. "Have you done this before?"

Bucky chased his mouth across the short distance between them, murmuring, "I'm not  _ that  _ young." He kissed Steve again, then said, eyes downcast, "But never with a man."

"We don't need to hurry into anything," Steve said.

"But what if I want to?" Bucky looked up at that, and Steve thought again that he was so open, footprints in the muddy earth for anyone who cared to look. Steve didn't want anyone else to read what was written there just for him. He reached out and ran his hand slowly down Bucky's side, over the linen of his tunic. Bucky turned toward him like a sunflower to the light. 

"I want you too," Steve assured him. "But there's no rush." A frown line started to form between between Bucky's eyebrows, so Steve kissed it away. "I want to make you feel good."

All the blood in Steve's body seemed to be rushing to his prick, but his own pleasure could wait. He reached out and undid the woolen belt tying Bucky's tunic around his narrow waist, Bucky watching his hands with wide eyes, his chest heaving with every breath. Steve felt like he was unwrapping a gift, something precious to be revealed just to him. Bucky had seen him dressed for the arena, muscles oiled and barely clothed in his leather armor, but he had never seen Bucky in anything less than all his clothes.

He smoothed out the folds of the linen where they had been wrinkled by the belt, feeling the slight give of Bucky's flesh beneath his palms, the sharp jut of his hipbones, and then ran his hands down Bucky's side until he found the warm skin of his thigh. Bucky tensed at the touch, but when Steve looked up, his expression was anticipation, not concern. 

"You have to tell me if I do something you don't like," Steve said.

"I will," Bucky promised, even though his face said he thought there was nothing Steve could do that he wouldn't want. But he was young, Steve reminded himself, and hadn't done this before. He was going to make certain that Bucky would want to do it again—if not with him, then with the next broad man that might catch his eye. The thought gave Steve an uncomfortable pang in his chest, so he set it aside.

Steve pushed Bucky's tunic up his legs, the fine linen soft with use and pliable beneath his hands. Bucky wasn't subject to the rigors of the arena, but it was clear that he spent time at the gymnasium, or perhaps riding horses. Whatever he did, his legs were finely muscled, the skin smooth with youth, the hair darker on his calves but sparse above his knee. Steve couldn't resist dropping a kiss on the long muscle of his thigh, and Bucky trembled beneath his touch. 

Bucky's breath was coming faster now, a counterpoint to the river and the birdsong, and Steve was desperate to taste him, but just as happy to take his time, to show Bucky how good he could make it. Steve pushed the hem of his tunic up, over his hips, and bit his lip at the shape of Bucky's cock hard against the soft wool of his  _ subligaculum _ . The loincloth was of finer cloth than Steve's own, but it wrapped the same way. Steve laid his hand over Bucky's length just to feel his cock twitch through the fabric. He was hard and warm and Steve couldn't resist stroking him through the  _ subligaculum  _ a few times.

Bucky moaned and threw his head back, but Steve would not be content until his entire body was bared to him. Steve kept sliding the linen up Bucky's torso, over his smooth belly and the faint trail of hair up the center line of his abdomen, the arches of his ribs, the curve of his pectoral muscles. Bucky was muscled but lithe, still soft with youth and the ease of his life; comely in Steve's eyes, a spark to the fire of want in Steve's belly. He pulled Bucky's tunic over his shoulders, and Bucky sat up to let himself be undressed, his gaze never straying far from Steve's face.

When Steve reached for his  _ subligaculum  _ to undo it, Bucky said, "Wait," and Steve went still. Bucky bit his bottom lip, teeth white against the red skin. "I only meant—I don't want to be the only one naked."

Steve smiled at that and pulled his own tunic over his head in one swift motion. Bucky had seen him change clothes, and he had seen most of his body in the arena, but it was different, Steve had always felt, to see someone casually nude—as at the baths where men might offer to scrape the sweat from each other's backs—than when offering their bodies to each other. The intimacy made it vulnerable.

Bucky looked his fill, his eyes dark with desire, roving from Steve's face down his chest, over his abs, lingering for a moment on his cock beneath the cloth at his waist, already erect and aching to be touched, the lines of his thighs, and then back up again. Steve leaned forward and kissed him, pushing him gently back to the ground. 

He moved from Bucky's lips to the corner of his jaw, sucked a line of kisses down his throat, lingering for a moment over his pulse. He kissed his clavicles, his sternum, lingering for a moment over Bucky's nipples, noting the way the younger man gasped and arched up into his touch. He followed the trail of dark hairs down to the edge of the folded cloth and rested his hand for a moment at Bucky's waist, looking up at him with one eyebrow raised.

"Yes, please," Bucky said. His eyes were wide, and his chest rosy with his flush, propped up on his elbows to watch Steve intently. Steve felt almost reverent as he unfolded the  _ subligaculum,  _ easing the fabric aside and untying it around Bucky's waist.

Bucky's cock stood erect, ready for Steve's touch, his foreskin already retracted to reveal the red tip, a drop of fluid pearled at the slit. Steve wanted badly taste it, so he did, curling one hand around the base so that he could lean down to lick the head.

Bucky moaned wordlessly, a shudder rippling through the muscles of his abdomen. Steve petted his hip, he hoped calmingly. Steve traced a circle around the top of Bucky's prick with his tongue, listening for his reaction. Every noise that Bucky made gratified him, and made Steve want to hear more. He opened his mouth and swallowed him down, delighted in the way Bucky's hips jerked up, the way his fingers scrabbled against the linen of their cloaks beneath him.

Steve took his time, licking and sucking, flattening his tongue against the underside of Bucky's prick, using his hand to create friction where his mouth could not reach. He had not been this intimate with another man since his free life in Thrace, and his chest was full of conflicting emotions almost too big for his body to contain. Part of it was because this was Bucky, this man who had become one of the few uncomplicated pleasures of his captive life. Not that his feelings for Bucky were uncomplicated, and certainly not that their situation was uncomplicated—but the time they had spent together was a pleasure, and this, this was a pleasure, the simple—uncomplicated—reaction of Bucky's body to his.

He did not stop the movements of his mouth as his other hand traced a path down the arc of Bucky's hip bone, through his pubic hair to take his balls in his hand. Steve traced the delicate skin with his thumb as he slid his fingers lower, over Bucky's perineum, and pressed gently.

"Oh," Bucky breathed.

He tensed up as Steve gently circled his hole, not pressing in. Steve stopped, resting his finger against it. He had heard that Romans had negative attitudes about penetration among men—even if only with a finger?—but he wasn't sure what they were. He had never seen evidence in the  _ ludus  _ that anyone was particularly put off by it—but then again, he supposed, the gladiators were a motley lot, some Roman, but more from Rome's conquests. He wanted to make Bucky feel good, not frighten him off.

"No?" he asked, pulling his hand back. "We don't have to. There's no shame in it where I come from, but if there is here…"

"I want to do what you want to do," Bucky said, but he sounded uncertain, and Steve didn't like that.

"There are so many other things we can do," Steve said gently. "It doesn't have to be this."

Bucky swallowed, and Steve wanted to lick the tender skin at the base of his neck. "You've done it before?"

"Many times," Steve said. "From both sides."

Bucky stared. "You—you've done it both ways?"

"Both ways feel good," Steve told him. "It's just different. They said in Thrace that Roman men don't wish to be penetrated, but I've seen that men here take other men as lovers, so you will have to tell me if it's true." He wrapped his fingers around Bucky's cock again; his erection had begun to flag while they spoke. "But if it is, there's plenty we can do to each other with hands and mouth."

Bucky's prick was stiffening again beneath Steve's fingers, and Steve dipped his head and tasted the tip again, just to prove his point.

"It's—it's not a prohibition, exactly." Bucky’s chest heaved once as Steve traced the head of his cock with his thumb. "They say it's—they say it's debasing, to be penetrated. It makes you like a woman." His eyes darted to Steve's, and he caught his lower lip—perhaps afraid he had offended him—but Steve just laughed.

He took Bucky's hand and laid it over his own prick, hard and aching beneath his  _ subligaculum _ . "I don't really think there'll be any confusion, do you?"

Bucky bit his lip, his lashes fluttering lower against his cheek. "Will you take this off?" His fingers flexed on the cloth over Steve's cock, and Steve bit back a moan.

"Yes," he said, smiling, but breathless.

His fingers were a little unsteady with want as he untied his  _ subligaculum  _ and set the length of cloth aside. He knew he was pleasing enough to the eye, or at least broad and well-made enough to pass for such. But the way Bucky looked at him, he felt like he was Apollo himself come to earth. Bucky's gaze roved from his head to his feet, stopping along the way at his chest, his narrow waist, his jutting cock.

"I don't know," Bucky said breathlessly. "I'm not supposed to want it…"

"Nobody has to penetrate anyone," Steve said. He didn't want to laugh at him, but this concern seems peculiar to him. "We can use our hands and mouths to bring each other off, or you can fuck my thighs if you want to."

"I can what?" Bucky looked very sweet confused like that, but Steve thought he might look even better being edified. He sat up and hooked his hand around the basket that had held their lunch, pulling it closer.

"I'll show you," he said, smiling perhaps a little wickedly. There was still plenty of oil left in the glass jar from their lunch, and it would do nicely. "Sometimes it's faster and easier to do it this way," Steve told him. He slathered the insides of his thighs with olive oil. "Here, come behind me."

Bucky did, and the feel of his lithe torso and warm arms around Steve sent a shiver down his spine. Steve crossed his legs to make a tight space for Bucky's prick, and Bucky caught on quickly enough, thrusting forward between Steve's legs. Steve rocked forward with Bucky's movements, almost as if he really were taking him in, and it wasn't so much that the insides of his legs were especially sensitive, but the sounds that Bucky was making and the way his body arced up against Steve's was one of the most thrilling sensations that Steve had ever felt. He looked down to see the red tip of Bucky's cock slipping in and out between his thighs, wet with oil and pre-come, and Steve had to reach down to get his hand on himself.

"Steve," Bucky moaned. He reached around to get his hand on Steve's chest, fingers groping at the swell of his muscles, stroking over his nipples, teasing them to hardness. Steve pumped his hand faster on himself, in time with Bucky's thrusts between his thighs. They had found a rhythm, a motion that suited them both, and Steve didn't care what either of their societies had to say about it, there was beauty in both of their pleasures rising, cresting, breaking like a wave to fall upon the shore of their shared desire.

Bucky's fingers clenched on Steve, tightening almost to the point of pain around his chest, and his hips stilled. Steve felt his cock pulse against his leg, and looked down in time to see him spend, his come spilling between Steve's crossed legs. Steve pulled furiously at his own prick, and it was only moments before he followed, barely having presence of mind to shove the fabric of their cloaks out of the way so that they would not be marked. Behind him, Bucky let out a shuddering sigh, and Steve uncrossed his legs and carefully turned so that he could pull the smaller man against his chest.

"Steve…" Bucky's cheeks were still flushed, and his eyes bright. He looked at Steve with wonder in his face, but it was not because of that that Steve found him so beautiful. "That was…"

Steve tightens his arms around Bucky. "Yes. For me too." He pressed a kiss to Bucky's forehead, then to the tip of his nose, then one full on his lips. "Thank you."

That left Bucky adorably flustered. Steve kissed him one more time then went down to the river to rinse himself off. The water was ice-cold in the shade without the sun to warm it, and he didn't linger more than long enough to wash both their come off his skin. He dipped the cups that had held their wine in the water of the stream where it met the river and brought them both back, offering one to Bucky.

Bucky sat up to take the cup, and Steve dropped down to sit next to him, mindful not to get the cold water on him; Steve had borne the brunt of both their spend, and Bucky need not wash until he could take a warm bath, unless he wished to.

"Do you think we could do this again?" Bucky said hopefully. "I meant what I said—I don't want this to be something casual."

Steve cupped Bucky's jaw in his hand and leaned forward to kiss him. "Yes. You know better than I when it's safe to sneak away like this, so that it's not you visiting the dormitory in the night." If they had to steal away hours, he preferred it to be under the open air, in the sunlight.

"I'll make it happen," Bucky said, and Steve believed him. "But for now, we need to get back. I wish we could stay longer, but—"

Steve kissed him again then drew away and passed him his  _ subligaculum _ . "I understand. We've been gone long enough."

"I don't want you to feel that you have to be hidden—" Bucky flushed, and his hands were clumsy as he wrapped the cloth around his waist.

Steve, still naked, but mostly dry now, leaned in and pulled him in for another kiss. "We do have to be hidden, Bucky. I doubt your family would want you to see me, and some of the other fighters might think I have some kind of advantage if they knew I was in your bed." He lifted his own loincloth from where he had abandoned it to the side of their temporary bower.

"Does it make it worse for you?" Bucky chewed on his lower lip as he found their tunics and tossed Steve's to him. "Me coming to see you, I mean. In the  _ ludus _ ."

Steve pulled his tunic over his head before he answered. He regretted to see that Bucky had also covered himself when his head emerged from the neck. "I don't think so. You don't come at night. Some of the men make assumptions, but I don't think it matters."

Bucky leaned down to pick up his belt, turning it over in his hands. Steve closed the distance between them and pulled the length of wool out of his hands. Steve smoothed the fabric of his tunic over his hips and tied the belt into place. 

Bucky brought his hands to Steve's shoulders and watched, his face troubled. Steve felt the weight of his touch, not a burden, but a responsibility nonetheless.

"It's all right, Bucky." Steve finished the knot and smoothed the length of wool around his waist. Now he looked respectable, not like he'd been trysting with a man, a slave, on the muddy banks of the river. "We don't know what the future will bring, so let's make the most of what we have."

Bucky's hands tightened on Steve's shoulders, and he looked up at Steve with shadows in his eyes; all Steve could do was close the slight distance between them and try to kiss the shadows away.

When they broke apart, Bucky's eyes were clearer, and he insisted on returning the favor and tying Steve's belt for him before they both gathered the scattered detritus of their meal. Bucky flushed as he brought the glass jar of olive oil to the basket.

"I'll never look at olive oil the same way after this," he said, and Steve laughed, but he thought, too, that he would never taste honey again without thinking of Bucky, of the sweet taste of him against his mouth. 

Steve picked up their cloaks and shook them clean. His was damp from the moss and the press of their bodies, but they still had to get from here to the  _ ludus _ ; it would dry.

He took one last look around the clearing, trying to commit it to memory to revisit, a precious gem he could run his thoughts over until it was polished smooth.

"Come on," he said to Bucky, slinging his arm over the slighter man's shoulders and pressing one last kiss to his temple. "At least there's still the walk back."

*

Quintus Lentulus Batiatus frowned unseeing at his account books. The cost of one slave woman was hardly the crux of the matter; it was that Balius had paid for her from his personal funds rather than the household accounts. Quintus had long wished that the boy would show some initiative outside of his fancies, but this was not what he had hoped for. This was something he could not account for, and he didn't like it.

He had asked about the Thracian woman, and the master of slaves was satisfied as to her industriousness, so there were no complaints there—but why would Balius involve himself in the hiring of a slave? Especially one who was not part of his personal staff? Quintus didn't understand it, and he didn't like things he didn't understand. Further questioning had turned up the fact that the woman was some relation of the Thracian that had been earning a name for himself in the arena. Spartacus was a good investment, one that promised many returns, a fierce warlike creature, a fighting savage of Thrace… Or so Quintus would talk him up when they advertised this year's fighters. He was already making a name for himself even before the season of the arena truly began, and brought the bigger spectacles the people expected.

Quintus was not opposed to the idea of bringing in the man's relations as a reward, or as motivation should his fighting spirit flag; but why on earth would the boy be involved? Unlike his older brother, he was no natural warrior, and in the past he had shown only passing interest in the arena and its games. Quintus needed more information.

Fortunately, he knew where he could find it.

"Send him in," he said.

The man who entered was dark-haired and dark-eyed, older than Spartacus by perhaps ten year; he radiated the sort of raw physical vitality and unconscious sense of superiority that most of the gladiators had, borne from the knowledge that he knew a myriad of ways to kill a man, and the confidence that came from practicing them on a daily basis. The beauty of Roman society was that such a man could exist full of brute force and trained in the ways of death, yet he would never attack his  _ dominus _ . He was a slave; he knew his place, as well as he knew who was placed above him. While it might occur to him to attack Quintus, he would never act on that thought. The consequences for him would be too dire.

Instead, he knew that he could curry favor with those the gods had placed above him in this life, and if he performed well, and didn't die, the reward of years spent entertaining the citizens might be to become a citizen himself, and thus exercise his own power over those below him.

And curry favor he would. Crossbones could always be counted on tell Quintus what was happening in the  _ ludus _ . It was not the first time that Quintus had asked him to bear witness against his fellow gladiators and it doubtless would not be the last.

"Tell me," Quintus said. "What connection does my son have to Spartacus the Thracian?"

Crossbones grinned. "Who's to say, exactly? But the young Dominus has visited the Thracian many times." Quintus felt his eyebrows draw together and forced himself to relax them. The gladiator did not need to know his feelings about his wayward son. "He's come to see him as a prostitute?"

"Only in the daytime, and only to talk—or so says the Thracian." Crossbones lifted an eyebrow. "I can listen, and see what I can learn."

"Yes, do that." Quintus dismissed the man and chewed the inside of his cheek. He couldn't decide what he hoped for—there was no shame in seeking release with a slave, as long as the boy wasn't sullying his honor as a citizen by playing the woman to the Thracian’s man, but Quintus didn't believe in hiding his own emotions from himself, and he had always felt that the boy was something of a disappointment. If he were comporting himself in ways unbecoming to a Roman citizen, then Quintus might find sympathy from the consul, whose son had left his noble home to become an actor. The consul did not often deign to favor the  _ lanista  _ with his company, but if they had a point of commonality...

If the boy was not getting fucked by the Thracian, it might be to Quintus's advantage to "prove" that he was—for the good of the family, of course. 

Quintus took up his stylus and began to write. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [subligaculum](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subligaculum) seems to have been standard Roman underwear regardless of class. [Here's](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ea/7c/4d/ea7c4d9fe7ddd1281b03411fbbc71606.jpg) a graphic of how to wrap one. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the nonnie on Tumblr who asked for this! You maybe had already seen it there, but I wanted to give it a home here too. I had a blast writing it. There will be at least two more chapters, in which Bucky and Steve rescue Sarah, and in which Steve leads the slave revolt, but I'm not sure when they will happen. <3


End file.
